Filling the Emptiness
by Galad Estel
Summary: Gap Filler: Post Hobbit, Pre Fellowship. Pieces of the lives of three Hobbit Ring Bearers. After returning to the Shire, Bilbo realizes that his home has not changed but he has. Frodo deals with the loss of his parents and is adopted by the eccentric Bilbo "Mad" Baggins. Sam struggles with the division of class and his love for Frodo. Complete.
1. Bilbo

_**AN: This was a story that came to my head when I was pulling an all nighter, writing a paper on Descartes for a Math Mayterm. Since, then, it was expanded a bit. This is all I have right now, but I might write another chapter. -Galad Estel**_

The hole in the hill seemed hollow. Though it was filled with his clothing, carpets, and furniture, it was strangely empty, even alien. Having grown accustomed to the pounding voices of Dwarves, Bilbo was struck by the silence. It haunted his bedroom, the cellars, the hall, the pantries, and especially the dining room.

"There should be singing here," Bilbo said to himself as he set his table for one.

Sometimes he would look out through his door with longing towards the mountains. He would fiddle with the gold ring he had found, pressing it between his palms, feeling its soft weight. He thought of Gollum, the near death he had had under those mountains. He told himself he should be happy, grateful to be alive. He was, but he wanted more.

He had taken to sitting long in the right side rooms, away from light of the left windows. It reminded him of the darkness of Dwarven Halls and kept him away from prying eyes. Bilbo had become a chief subject of conversation in the Shire. Once, he had been considered a respectable hobbit from a good family now he was called mad, cracked, and queer.

_Where had he been? Why hadn't he told anyone he was going?_ _Who were these strangers who came at all hours of the night? Where had his treasure come from? And how rich was he now?_

These questions passed from the lips of his neighbors as they passed by Bag End. Their bright eyes searched the Smial for its master, but Bilbo seldom withdrew from his house.

"Smaug must have felt this way," Bilbo thought. "Alone with only stolen gold to keep him company."

So, Bilbo decided to give it away. Those who were hungry or cold or needed a lift because they had had a hard year began to find envelopes filled with gold coins on their doorsteps in the morning. There was no word of explanation, just the words—_From a Friend—_in red letters on the envelopes.

This had led to great commotion in the Shire, as hobbits tried to guess whom the secret benefactor might be. Crowds started camping outside of the poorest holes to catch a glimpse of him, but it was Hamfast Gamgee, the Baggin's garden boy, who found him out. Bilbo made Hamfast promise not to tell, but Hamfast had a loose tongue, and the secret was soon circulating as far as Bree.

"He's trying to buy back his reputation," said the Sackville-Baggins.

Others took it in more kindly fashion. Those among the poorer classes looked on him as a sort of hero. Still, not many visitors stayed long at Bag End.

"It reeks of strangeness," said Aster Brown after taking tea with Bilbo one Sunday afternoon. "He has all these odd maps in the hall and half the things he says make no sense."

Occasionally, guests from other parts of the Middle-earth came over. Dwarves, mainly the remnant of the thirteen, would spend the night under his roof. They would talk about the adventures they had had together, exchange silent tears and cheery smiles. Balin came most often. He would inform Bilbo about what went on in the lands of Erebor and Laketown. Sometimes when the night was old, he would tell the histories of the Dwarves, the hardships that they had endured from the beginning and their reasons for enmity towards the Elves.

"They never gave us chance," Balin said, looking at the dying fire in the grate. "They loathed us even from the start."

Bilbo chose not to take sides on that debate. The King of Mirkwood had called him Elf-Friend and often in the twilight in the woods of the Shire, Bilbo would come across Elves and speak with them. Indeed it seemed that Bilbo was most at ease in the company of outsiders, and an outsider in the company of his own people.

"I feel out of place in the Shire," Bilbo complained to Gandalf, who was taking a rest in Hobbiton on his way south. "It just doesn't feel like home like it used to."

"And you want it to feel like home?" Gandalf said. They were sitting out in the garden in the noonday sun. It was April, and the lilies and daffodils were in bloom. Both had out there pipes and were smoking lazily.

"Why yes, why wouldn't I?" Bilbo said. He blew out a ring of smoke and watched it drift off towards the road.

"Well, it seems to me," said Gandalf, "that you rather enjoy feeling superior to your neighbors, knowing things that they probably don't even dream of."

Bilbo blushed. "I suppose I do allow myself that satisfaction sometimes, but it takes more than being smug to fill the emptiness. I've changed, Gandalf, and it's more than half your fault."

"I'm dreadfully sorry," Gandalf said. "Perhaps, on one of my long journeys through the wilderness I will come across something that can turn back time, and you can end your days a lonely, old bachelor with no adventure. Would that satisfy you?"

"How do you know I wouldn't have settled down, gotten married, had a family?"

"It wasn't your fate," Gandalf said. "Even before you went away, you were a bit of an oddity. Already fifty, not yet married, a wanderer within your borders. Something was bound to happen, and it did. So, don't go blaming me."

"All right, all right!" Bilbo said. "So, maybe I wouldn't have gotten married, but I did once have visitors, and as I recall I was rather fond of them."

"And so you would be still," Gandalf said with a laugh, "If you were still as shallow as you were pre-dragon. As you've said you've changed, but I believe it's been mostly for the better."

"Mostly?" Bilbo said. "So, you admit that there are some traits that your journey has given me that are not all together agreeable?"

"Your secrecy. I remember you as a very open hobbit. Now you're tighter with your secrets and more inclined to hide away."

"Yes," Bilbo said. "That might have something to do with the job you gave me, Burglar."

"But that job is over now."

"Well, what is it that you want to know?" Bilbo huffed. He got up and paced the garden walk.

"Are you intending to spend forever alone?" Gandalf said. He stooped and placed his pipe in his pack.

"Do I have a choice? It's not like anyone wants to live with me. Even the nieces and nephews who like me seldom come by. Their elders won't let them, not even the Tooks. I've out taken the Tooks, out bucked the Brandybucks."

Bilbo stared at the hillside and laughed. Gandalf reached out and touched his friend's arm.

"You're always welcome in Rivendell," Gandalf said. "Elrond will make sure of that."

"Thanks," Bilbo said. "But I'm not quite willing to give up on my fellow hobbits—yet."

Spring passed to summer, summer to fall, fall to winter. Bilbo ate, wandered, and wrote poetry, some of which he bound in volumes and even got published. As years passed, he grew fatter and more content. Sometimes his Brandybuck and Took cousins would venture over or would have the decency to invite him to their houses.

At one Brandy Hall party, Bilbo met Primula. She was helping host the party, as she was the daughter of Master of the Hall, Gorbadoc. Bilbo walked in, and she was the first thing he saw, a buxom, rosy-cheeked hobbit lass wearing a yellow frock and pouring mead. She noticed him staring and smiled.

"Would you like some?" she said, holding up a glass filled with glowing gold.

"Yes, thank you," Bilbo mumbled. He took it, and she poured another glass for herself. The Hall was crowded, but at the moment, only a half dozen were at the tables looking for food. Most everyone was dancing. Music streamed from bells, pipes, and flutes, and a fast chant had broken out among the youngsters in the back. Skirts and hair flew.

"It's a shame you're stuck here," Bilbo told Primula, waving at the tables. "You should be out there enjoying yourself."

"It's a little too loud for me," Primula said.

"Is it?"

She nodded and laughingly placed her hands over her ears. "My cousins can make so much noise."

"I enjoy smaller parties myself," Bilbo said.

"More quiet," Primula said with a nod.

"And less likely to get trampled," Bilbo said, as two big boned boys squeezed past him to get to the well-stocked table.

"I can't see you getting trampled. Not if half the stories I've heard of you are true."

"Then they are decidedly not."

"So, you didn't kill a dragon all by yourself?" Primula said, taking a sip of her mead.

"No, I most definitely didn't," Bilbo said. "I only told the man how to kill it, that's all. Well, actually I told a thrush to tell a man how to kill the dragon. No, I told the Dwarves but the bird overheard. It's complicated."

"I see," she said, "and you did not fight off a family of giant spiders?"

"Well, actually I did do that," Bilbo said. "But I had some help."

He stroked the ring in his pocket and smiled.

Primula shifted from foot to foot and looked across the crowded room at her father, who was busy in conversation with his son, Rory.

"Do you want to talk outside?" she said turning back to Bilbo. She reached for her shawl. It was autumn.

They walked out together. Bilbo sucked in his breath not knowing what to say. Primula looked twice as pretty out of doors, the sunlight turning her reddish brown hair to copper.

"The sky is so blue," Primula said.

Bilbo nodded and kicked absently at a patch of grass.

"I wish I had a dress that color," Primula said.

"I've seen a dress that color," Bilbo said. "In Rivendell, an Elf maid wore one."

"Elves, giant spiders, and dragons. I really don't know if I should believe you." She leaned back against an apple tree, her skirt flapping lightly in the breeze.

"You can choose not to if you want, but its all true."

"What else have you seen?" she said, reaching up for a branch over her head.

"Trolls for one and goblins," Bilbo said. "A whole bunch of unpleasant things."

"Tell me more," she begged.

"What do you want to know?" he said.

She seized an apple from the tree and tossed it to him. "Everything!"

So began a friendship that bordered on courtship. Bilbo told Primula a first hand account of all his adventures he had had with the Dwarves, about the trolls, elves, goblins, and men, of his plans, escapades, and treasures, the only thing he left out was the ring. Something always warned to keep his mouth shut about that.

Primula told him tales of the Shire and the Old Forest. She had learned many of them from her cantankerous great aunt who lived quite near the Shire's northern border. Some of the stories Bilbo had heard before, but others that spoke of spooks in the Forest made his heart shiver.

Their relationship was based on more than storytelling though. Primula provided Bilbo with a feeling of home that he had not felt since his journey. In her presence, he felt truly happy, and Primula was always glad to see him. Her father however was not pleased with the attachment between them. He could not see why his beautiful, young daughter should be seen so often with a madman thirty years her senior. He did not interfere though, and in the end, it was Bilbo who broke up with her.

"You deserve better than a restless heart," Bilbo told Primula one bright June day. "It's warm and I will wander."

"Let me walk with you," she said.

So, they walked together over the rolling hills and through the woods of the Shire, but Bilbo seldom spoke and his eyes roved ever towards the Misty Mountains. He had grown used to walking alone and did not know how to entertain. Neither did he want to. He had grown selfish he realized, only wanting company when it suited his needs.

Afterwards, Bilbo took to avoiding Primula and hobbits in general, shutting himself away with his books. When visitors came, he spoke nonsense until they left. Primula moved on, but not entirely. She married a Baggins, one twelve years older, Drogo son of Fosco. Her wedding gown was the color of a September sky.

When Bilbo heard of their deaths he grieved silently and went back to writing poetry, most of which he burned later because he believed it to be badly written. It was not until years later that he would discover a kindred spirit in Primula's orphaned son.


	2. Frodo

The Brandywine sped by. Frodo wondered how long he had been watching it. The river foamed and cackled, flooding its banks, taking in more May rain.

"You've taken everything," Frodo told the brown water. "You didn't have to. I loved them more than you ever could."

The river just gurgled childishly and spluttered on.

"You're so free, so careless," Frodo said. He cupped water in his hands. It seeped through his fingers, slid off the sides of his palms. "Like them, I guess. I should have known I couldn't keep them. It's been nine years. I can hardly remember their faces. I see them on the wall, but that's not the same. They're not in my mind."

Birds cried in the trees, and the rain sang low. The river laughed.

"I suppose I shouldn't miss them. I have aunts and uncles and cousins to talk to, but I can't help but feel alone. Deeply alone, like no one will ever truly know me. When people ask me how I am I say I'm well, but that's half the story, isn't it? Imagine if someone were to come down here and see me talking to you. They'd think I was mad.

Am I?"

The river shrugged its way over a small waterfall, hopping on stones.

"It doesn't matter anyhow," Frodo said. "I mean I don't know if I would have been happy even if they had lived. Oh, that seems a horrible thing to say, but it's a small consolation. They were always arguing. You should have heard them in the night, flinging insults back in forth, especially when the beer started flowing. Some people say they killed each other. I don't believe that. They would never. But how they fought, until the day they both sunk down under you, united only in death."

He threw two rocks into the river, watched them sink. For a moment, a bubbly patch played on the surface but soon it was the same as the rest of the current.

"I wonder," Frodo said. "If there is anything after death. Maybe just emptiness, like the gaps the dead leave in the hearts of the survivors. But then again maybe they do live somewhere else now. Maybe my mother and father can see me from there. I wonder if they want me to be happy."

The Brandywine chattered on downstream, but Frodo could not make sense of the river talk. He stood up.

"I should go," he said. "I may be missed me. I think I'm suppose to help with dinner tonight."

Frodo picked up the book he had stolen from his grandfather's library. It was a rare account of the Battle of Greenfields, bound in green leather with gold lettering. He had taken it without permission in the hopes he would be caught. A rash, stupid decision but most of his decisions were rash and stupid. It kept him in trouble and out of thinking too much.

He trudged along a woodland path back towards Brandy Hall. He was trying to remember a song his father used to sing to him, but he only recalled snatches of the melody and none of the words. Glancing back towards the roaring Brandywine, Frodo spotted an older hobbit walking the same path quite a bit behind him. He was moving rather sluggishly, probably had a lot on his mind. This looked the perfect opportunity for a bit of mischief. Frodo scrambled behind a hedge on the path's left side and waited.

It took a while, but the other hobbit was finally on the path in front of him. Frodo sprang out on him.

"For Buckland and Old Bullroarer!" he cried, charging at the stranger with a stick.

The other hobbit jumped and suddenly vanished. He did not run away or hide. He just plain disappeared. For a moment, Frodo stood dumbfounded. Then he started grabbing the air around him. His fingers caught on something, a coat. He pulled at it. A body hit his chest. He screamed and tripped. They tumbled down together.

The other hobbit reappeared, scowling.

"What do you think you're doing, you young rascal?" he said. "Jumping on strangers like that. You gave me quite the scare."

"So did you," Frodo said. "How did you do that?"

"What?"

"That vanishing act," Frodo said.

"An old routine of self defence. I learned it abroad. Usually works with scamps like you." The stranger said, standing up and glaring down at the mud on his trousers.

"Oh!" Frodo exclaimed. "I know who you are! You're Mad Baggins."

"You're the mad one. Threatening people with sticks." He was counting the gold buttons on his red waistcoat, making sure they were all still there.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said. "It was just for fun. I wouldn't have hurt you. But you're Bilbo Baggins, right?"

"That depends on if my answering 'yes' will lead to string of ridiculous questions."

"I've heard so much about you," Frodo said.

"So has half the Shire," Bilbo said. "Doesn't mean I want to talk to them."

"I understand," Frodo said. He picked up Bilbo's walking stick and handed it to him.

Bilbo seized it. "No, you don't. You're just a foolish lad who wants to poke fun at poor, friendless, old Mad Baggins."

"That's not fair," Frodo countered. "I didn't know who you were before I attacked you."

"So you're a terror to everyone," Bilbo said. "Doesn't make you any better. Where are your parents? I'd like to have a talk with them. Tell them to keep a closer eye on you."

"Oh," Frodo said. "I haven't got parents."

"What? You just sprang out of the ground like a mushroom?"

"No, I had parents, but I lost them."

"Well, that was mighty careless of you," Bilbo mumbled. He was trying to scrub the mud off his trousers with a pocket-handkerchief.

"They died," Frodo snapped.

Bilbo stared at him. Frodo flinched, dropping his gaze to ground.

"I'm sorry," Frodo said. "I shouldn't have raised my voice."

"No," Bilbo said. "I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking. Well, I was, but not about you. I am, well, I'm not much good with people."

"That's all right," Frodo said. "I'm sorry for attacking you."

He turned to walk away.

"Wait," Bilbo said. "Where are you going?"

"Brandy Hall," Frodo said turning back.

"I'm going that way myself," Bilbo said. "If you want we could walk together."

"It's all right with me," Frodo said, nervously.

"Oh, don't worry," Bilbo said. "I'm not going to tell on you. I did enough mischief myself. How old are you, lad?"

"I'll be twenty-one, come September," Frodo said. He was kicking a pebble as he walked.

"September? You have a birthday in September too? What day?"

"Twenty-second," Frodo said.

"My goodness."

"What?"

"It's the same date as mine."

"What a coincidence!"

"I was once told by an old and wise friend," Bilbo said, "that there are no real coincidences. It's the Powers pushing us in the right direction."

Frodo stopped suddenly. "I have to go back."

"What? Forgot something?"

"My book. Well, not actually my book. My grandfather's, I stole it."

"A thief too?" Bilbo shook his head. "My, you are a trouble maker. You should come live with me."

"Why?"

"Because your kin are obviously not keeping a close enough eye on you," Bilbo said. "Besides we could celebrate our birthdays together that way."

Frodo looked him in the eye. "You're serious."

"Yes," Bilbo said. "Yes, I am."

"But why? Why would you want me?"

"Because I'm lonely," Bilbo said. "I live in this great big hill all by myself, and I have no one to talk to, no one to share anything with. I mean there is old Gaffer Gamgee, but he's completely daft. And there's his sons and his daughters, but they haven't anything really interesting to say all put together. And I know, I know, I'm a horrible, selfish, judgemental man, but I like you."

Frodo felt his heart skip. It had been a long time since anyone said they liked him. Of course, his relatives were obliged to act like they treasured his presence, but often he felt such a burden. They saw him as a perpetual troublemaker, a bad influence on their impressionable children.

"I can see you're thinking too much to say anything," Bilbo said, "So, go back and get the book. I'll wait here for your answer."

Frodo dashed back to the bushes and grabbed the book. He felt his heart beating fast. This Bilbo Baggins seemed a most impulsive man. He might change his mind before Frodo had time to get back. Frodo wondered what it would be like to live with such a strange fellow. Perhaps, it would not be such a good idea to take up his offer, but he had a deep-seated feeling that they belonged together somehow, and by the time, he had walked back to Bilbo Baggins, he had made up his mind.

"Yes," Frodo said.

"What?" Bilbo said, coming out of a daydream.

"I'll come live with you."

Bilbo smiled and nodded, looked down at the book. "You never told you were interested in history."

"Well," Frodo said. "You just met me."

"Yes," Bilbo said. "I guess I did, though it doesn't feel that way. It seems like I've been waiting for you forever."

The adoption took a while. At first, the Brandybucks were unwilling to send Frodo off to live with their queer relation, even if the lad did seem anxious to go. They were won over however by some of Bilbo's charm and a bit of his gold and the promise that Frodo would be made heir to Bag End. They could not deny Frodo a wealthy legacy.

So, Frodo came to live in Hobbiton. It took him a while to adjust to the other hobbit's way of life. Yes, Bilbo did have his meals at nearly regular hours (he missed some when he wandered) but his habits were odd. He would get up at night to write or talk to himself or host midnight parties for loud-mouthed Dwarves. Sometimes sleep was impossible. Still, Frodo found the change exciting, and though Bilbo was sometimes quiet and distant, Frodo did not take it personally. He knew there must something else bothering his friend.

One day, when Bilbo was especially silent and gloomy, Frodo decided to ask about it.

"Dear Bilbo," Frodo said. "What is the matter?"

Bilbo lifted his head from his hands. He had been sitting slumped in his old rocking chair for nearly an hour. Now he stood up. He patted Frodo's arm absently and walked towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Frodo asked.

"Checking the post," Bilbo mumbled.

"Why won't you tell me what's wrong? I could help."

"I doubt it," Bilbo said. He had stopped walking though.

"I could try," Frodo persisted. "After all you have done for me, talking me in, the kindness you've shown me, I want to do something in exchange."

"You can't barter love, Frodo," Bilbo said. "My problems aren't meant for one as young and fresh as you."

"I want to help you," Frodo said. "I don't want to be shut out."

Bilbo opened the door and walked out. It was August, and the air was stifling. He took the letters in and spread them across the kitchen table, a party invitation, a note for an auction, a letter from a distant relation asking for money.

"I've had losses too, Frodo."

Frodo waited.

"People I once knew are now gone. We all loose our parents at some point, or they us. I've had other losses too, friends, allies. Some of the sadder ones are the lost possibilities. People can be so cruel to each other."

"I don't know who you're talking about," Frodo said. He was thinking about his parents.

"Thorin Oakenshield," said Bilbo. He saw the blank look on Frodo's face and explained. "Thorin was the leader of our company in our quest to retake the Lonely Mountain. He was a brave Dwarf, though a stubborn one. There were harsh words said between us but friendship in the end. I wish we had had more time."

"He died?"

"Yes, he was slain at the Battle of the Five armies. You can read about it in my book, once I've got it finished."

"I'm sorry about your friend," Frodo said.

"Yes, well, death isn't picky, plucks out good or bad. I don't think I've ever mentioned this but I knew your mother."

"You did?"

"Yes," Bilbo said, stacking the letters and shoving them in the cook stove. "For a little while. She was a lovely person."

"I'm glad you thought so," Frodo said.

"Anyone would, anyone with sense."

Frodo gave him a half smile. He did not ask Bilbo if he had known his father.

The years flew by. Frodo came through adolescence unscathed though quite a bit wiser. Bilbo told him plenty about the outside world, and Frodo had met Dwarves and Elves in Bilbo's company. Generally, Frodo found that Dwarves were polite (except when drunk) and that Elves teased too much (except those who were very grave). Frodo was drifting closer to outsiders now and further away from his own people.

He hated how his fellow hobbits looked down on Bilbo and made him some sort of a joke.

They did not even try to understand him. They just thought him strange and let it be. The

ones who were friendly with him were usually after his wealth. Even some of the rude

ones were (like the notorious Sackville-Baggins), and Frodo found himself time and

again defending Bilbo's honour. Until the day, Bilbo ordered him to stop.

"You can't change a person's opinion by shouting at them, my dear," Bilbo said.

It was not just Bilbo's reputation that was suffering however. Frodo had become

notorious by association. Of course, all of Bilbo's closest relations loathed Frodo because he was now heir and would get Bag End, but even among the larger circle of hobbits, many an eye was poised to search out strangeness in the Bag End lad who would soon come of age. Mothers wondered if the wealth was worth sending a daughter at him. His reputation was so constantly in question.

Then finally the day arrived, Frodo's coming of age party and Bilbo's one hundred and eleventh birthday. It was quite the spectacle, all the food and fireworks, but Bilbo's sudden disappearance at the end blew every other thrill out of his guests' minds.

Of course, by then, Frodo knew about the Ring. Bilbo had told him about it one afternoon soon after Frodo had moved in. They had run out of things to talk about, so Frodo had brought up their first meeting, but instead at laughing as Frodo described how terrified he had been at Bilbo's sudden invisibility, Bilbo had become queerly quiet and asked him if he still wanted to know how he had done it.

"Of course," Frodo said.

So, Bilbo brought out the Ring and told him how he taken it to escape from a murderous creature called Gollum and of all the daring stunts he had pulled because of the thing, and Frodo had thought the Ring great fun and that was that, but Frodo did not laugh when Bilbo pulled the trick at the party or afterwards when he had settled the guests' nerves and gone back to find Bag End empty. When everyone had left, he cried.


	3. Sam

Stray gloves, broken glass, and lost handkerchiefs were the only signs left of the Party. The tents and pavilions had been cleared away. There were no more fireworks. Sam turned to his sister Marigold. She had changed from her best dress to her everyday. Her hair was pulled off her face. She was picking up spoons.

"It's over," he said.

She shrugged her shoulders. "We haven't finished cleaning."

Her dress was old and patched. It barely reached her knees. Her legs looked cold. He wondered why she hadn't sewed a new one. Her fingers were quick and nimble. She could make one in a week, less if she slacked with the chores. Maybe she was saving for better cloth.

"He's going to go," said Sam.

"He's gone," Marigold said. "He left last night, remember?"

"I meant Mr. Frodo," Sam said. "I can't see him staying here all alone without Mr. Bilbo."

She stopped, still stooped, her apron pocket heavy with silverware. "He wouldn't leave too, would he?"

"You never know," said Sam. "These folks at Bag-End, they do mighty unexpected things."

"But you might lose your job then," she said. She stood up, stretching her back. The spoons and forks rattled together in her pocket.

Sam hadn't even been considering the job. Thinking about Mr. Frodo leaving the Shire was hard enough without thinking about unemployment. If Frodo left than Mr. Otho and Mrs. Lobelia would get Bag-End, and it was a known fact that the Sackville-Bagginses didn't trust the Gamgees. They'd probably dismiss Sam and hire another gardener, but Sam could find work with one of his uncles or older brothers. He was a strong lad; people wanted strong lads. But Frodo, Sam could never find a replacement for Mr. Frodo.

Sam breathed out. "That might happen, but there's no use worrying about it 'til it comes."

Marigold shook her head. "It ain't fair," she said.

"What?" Sam was picking up pieces of a broken bottle, being careful not to cut himself, and putting them in an old leather pouch.

"They get to do what they want," Marigold said, wiping her brow. "They can choose to run off or send us away. They don't have to deal with the consequences, and we always have to pick up after them."

She stooped again, pulling a sunken spoon from the mud and cleaning it on the grass.

"It's just the way life is," said Sam. "They can't think of us. They're too busy thinking about great things."

"Like what?" Marigold wiped her dirtied hands on her apron.

"I don't rightly know," Sam said. "But what they do, it's what they're supposed to, and anyway gentle folk can't take care of themselves. They need us to take care of them."

"_You_ think so? Sounds awful like Dad to me. I'm finished with these." Marigold pushed a few unruly hairs back behind her ears and walked off towards Bag-End.

"Don't give him any trouble," Sam called.

"I won't," Marigold said. "I'll just drop the silverware off in the kitchen. I'll be back."

Sam nodded. Marigold was always talking, brazenly talking, but it never came to nothing. Sam continued to fill his leather pouch with glass. He thought he might bring the glass home, as a memento from the party. He had received a present, of course – a bright green waistcoat with _real gold _buttons. Mr. Bilbo was a generous hobbit, but these pieces of glass somehow seemed closer to the moment. They weren't picked out before hand. They were just there, broken and unwanted. Maybe Sam would put the glass in water and see if they would smooth, like the pieces of sea glass Mr. Frodo kept in a jar in his bedroom. Mr. Frodo had said that the sea glass had been present from a Sea Elf that he had met in the woods. Sam would give anything to see an Elf, and he'd give anything to keep Frodo.

A week passed, and Mr. Frodo didn't leave. Gandalf did though, abandoning poor Frodo to the prying eyes of the neighbors. People said that Gandalf had done away with Bilbo and that Frodo had been an eager accomplice to the crime. They said that Mr. Frodo had always been after Mr. Bilbo's money. They said that he was a gold digger of the most desperate kind, and that's why he had moved in with Bilbo in the first place. They said that Gandalf had turned his affections though and persuaded Frodo that Bilbo was a nuisance standing in their way. Sam could not see how that could be. Mr. Gandalf and Mr. Bilbo had always been good friends.

"Ah, you're naïve," Ted Sandyman said. They were sitting in a corner of the Ivy Bush. It was Friday, and Sam was taking a break from work after weeding the strawberry patch Mr. Frodo had out back. Ted had dropped by as well, to get a glass of cider and talk. "Some people would do anything for money."

"Mr. Gandalf doesn't have any need for money," Sam said stoutly.

"A vagabond in rags has no need for money?" Ted laughed.

"He's a wizard." Sam fidgeted in his chair. He almost always lost arguments to Ted, which was probably the only reason the miller's son talked to him. Sam himself, well, it took a lot for him to stay out of an argument, especially when it involved the folk up at Bag-End.

"Wizard or no," Ted said, "you've got to admit, it's mighty suspicious how Gandalf slinked off like that the day after the party. I guess he got all he wanted from Frodo."

"Mr. Frodo," Sam corrected him.

"Yes," Ted said. "He is mister. He did a bad gamble, but he's still got gold."

Sam didn't know what to say to that. He wanted to punch Ted so bad, but his dad would find out and give him a thrashing, so he got up instead and stormed out of the inn. He went back over to Bag-End and started trimming the hedge with a vengeance.

"Oi!" a voice said from behind. He turned to see Mr. Frodo standing in the shadow of the green front door of Bag-End. Though it was past noon, Mr. Frodo was still in his nightclothes, a lavender dressing gown thrown loosely over them. His eyes were red, and there were puffy circles under them. He was brandishing a mug of hot coffee. "What did that bush ever do to you?"

Sam's heartbeat accelerated. He blushed and hung his head. "Nothing."

"Well, then who are you angry with?" Mr. Frodo asked. He sat down crossed-legged on his steps, waiting for an answer.

Sam looked away, blushing harder. He couldn't say what was wrong. It would only make Frodo more upset. Mr. Frodo wouldn't understand anyway. He was too good and pure to understand what the neighbors were accusing him of.

"No one," Sam muttered. "I was just being careless. I'm sorry."

Frodo stared down at Sam's shears and then up at Sam's face.

"You can tell me, Sam," Frodo said, smiling gently. "What's bothering you? I swear I won't breathe a word to the Gaffer if you don't want me to. I just want to help."

"It's nothing that can be helped," said Sam solemnly. He looked up at the bright blue of the late September sky. "It's a beautiful day."

"Yes," said Frodo. Then more to himself than to Sam, he added. "A wonderful day to roam. I wonder where Bilbo is, if he's doing all right."

Sam almost choked. Frodo's voice had all the misery of an abandoned child. Sam thought about how selfish he'd been. Mr. Frodo had been missing and worrying about Mr. Bilbo, and the neighbors had done nothing to comfort Frodo in his loss. Worse, they had blamed him for his uncle's departure. And all the while, Sam was only thinking about how awful it would be if he lost Frodo.

But Mr. Frodo was the most exquisite thing in Sam's life. When Sam had first met Frodo, he had thought him an Elf out of one of Mr. Bilbo's stories. Frodo had been tall, well taller than Sam who had been quite a child at the time, and he was beautiful, so beautiful. He had bright eyes, a clear complexion, and rosy lips and cheeks, and his voice was so soft and lovely that everything that Mr. Frodo said made Sam listen, even when it was nonsense.

"I don't know where he is, Mr. Frodo, but I'm sure he's fine," said Sam, trying to sound reassuring. "He can take care of himself."

Frodo nodded and looked down the dirt path, his feet shifting restlessly. "Do you think he'll ever come back?"

"Maybe," Sam said. He laid him shears on the ground near the hedge. When Mr. Frodo got to talking and speculating he could go on for quite a while.

"Truthfully?" Frodo turned his eyes back to Sam, hope in his smile.

Sam hesitated than shook his head. "No, I can't imagine he'll come back here, sir."

Frodo looked crushed. He lowered his head into his hands. Then suddenly, he looked up. "Is that what's bothering you?" he asked. "Are you angry at Bilbo for leaving?"

Sam opened his mouth then closed it. "It's no business of mine, sir," he said, "where Mr. Bilbo goes or what he does with his time."

"So, you_ are _angry with him."

Mr. Frodo was angry with Mr. Bilbo, Sam realized, and he was feeling guilty about being angry. He was just that good. Mr. Frodo wanted to be reassured that his feelings were natural, which they were. He had every right to be angry with Mr. Bilbo. After all, Bilbo had just run off on him without warning. Sam tried to imagine what he would do if his Dad unexpectedly deserted him, but the Gaffer wouldn't. He wasn't the roving type.

"Aren't you?" Sam said. "He just up and left you, as soon as you were grown. I mean aren't you lonely now, alone in the house, all alone."

"That's a lot of 'alone's', Sam," Frodo said. He pulled his dressing gown closer about his slender body. "It's cold."

"Yeah," Sam said. "You should go in and sit by the fire. I need to get back to work anyhow."

Sam picked up his shears and started trimming the hedge again, carefully this time, no hacking.

"Sam?" Frodo said. He was standing, his hand on the round, brass doorknob. "Couldn't you come live with me for a bit? You wouldn't have to stay long, just until I get used to being alone."

Sam started. His heart thumped wildly in his chest. He kept his face straight, but he didn't dare look Mr. Frodo in the eye.

"I'd love to but…" he began.

"Please?" Frodo said. His hand left the doorknob. He stepped off the steps, his dressing gown fluttering in the breeze.

"I don't think it would be appropriate." Sam really just wanted to say "yes", move in, and forget about the consequences, but he could already hear the voices of his neighbors in his head. They would say that Sam was being uppity: living in a big house, thinking he could be friends with a gentlehobbit. They would say crueler things too, and Mr. Frodo's reputation would fall to utter shambles. Maybe if Frodo were lonely enough, he would settle down and get married. Then everyone would have to stop talking.

"Oh," Frodo said. He didn't say anything else, but the hurt look in his eyes cut Sam in two.

"It has nothing to do with you," Sam said. "Or what people say–"

"What do they say?" Frodo said. There was certain sharpness in his voice, mingled with curiosity. So, Mr. Frodo _was_ aware of some of the rumors that were going around.

"Nothing," said Sam quickly. "I meant to say what they would say. It isn't proper for a master and his servant to become too familiar."

"Too familiar?" Frodo said, tilting his head. "What do you mean too familiar?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "Livin' under the same roof, and all."

"There's nothing wrong with a servant living in his master's house. Why in Brandy Hall, we had three live-in servants and a cook."

"I'm sure that works fine there, Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "But Buckland has its own rules, you know. Besides, there are over two hundred hobbits in Brandy Hall; no one would notice three more. But you live _alone_."

"Yes," Frodo said impatiently, "which is why I want you to come live with me, to keep me company."

Sam sucked on his bottom lip. If Mr. Frodo didn't get it now, he wasn't sure if he ever would. Mr. Frodo could be so determinately daft at times. He was always trying to overlook the worst about a person or situation. It was a blessing and a curse.

"People would talk, sir," said Sam. "They would say nasty things about…us."

Frodo wrinkled his nose. "What sort of things?"

"Mr. Frodo." Sam sighed. "I don't think it would be good for you."

"Why?" Frodo demanded. "And why do you care about what other people say? They're all stupid."

"Because I'm stupid," Sam said. He looked Mr. Frodo in the eye, though his cheeks were hot. "I'm just like them."

"No, no, you're not." Frodo's voice had gone soft again, fled back to the realm of childishness because being an adult wasn't working.

"Yes, yes, I am," Sam insisted. "I care what people think. I care what they say."

Sam wanted to add so much more – about how he loved Frodo – about how he would love to live with him – about how under different circumstances, well, things could be different –about how he was doing this for Frodo's own sake, but Sam couldn't say any of those things. It wouldn't be proper, and it wouldn't change Mr. Frodo's mind.

Sam looked around at the flowers in the garden, at the snapdragons, sunflowers, nasturtiums, and marigolds, all gold and red. They smelt sweet and waxy, like candles.

"Your garden looks like the sun," Sam said.

Frodo smiled and shook his head. "All right, Sam," he said, "you win. I can't force you come live with me. I'm sorry for being such a pain."

Frodo walked back into Bag-End, but he left the door open a crack. In the end, they came to a compromise. Sam would not live with Frodo, but he would get paid extra to come by each morning to wake Mr. Frodo up and make him breakfast. Mr. Frodo cooked his other meals himself and often locked himself away in his study or wandered far in the wood, so Sam rarely saw him after morning. The lives they lived stood side-by-side, only crossing once in a while. Parallel and occasionally perpendicular, Mr. Frodo would have said with all his book learning.

The years flew by. They had their own lives, their own hobbies, and their own friends. For friends Sam had the Cottons: Tom, Jolly, Nick, Nibs, and Rosie. They were regular working class hobbits and long friends of the Gamgee family. Sam, Marigold, and the Cotton children had spend their childhoods playing by the banks of the Bywater, running through the mud and dipping their feet in the clear, cool water.

Sam considered Tom, Jolly, Nick, and Nibs to be his best friends, and Rosie was something more, a child sweetheart, so to speak. She was a pretty lass with golden-brown curls, warm brown eyes, and countless freckles. She had a face as round as apple and lips just as sweet.

Mr. Frodo had, as friends, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin, and Mr. Folco Boffin and Mr. Fredegar Bolger, the whole lot of them gentlehobbits, most from away. They didn't all come as often as Frodo would have liked (Sam sometimes caught Mr. Frodo complaining out loud to himself), but when they did all five get together, they made quite a ruckus. Their parties were usually private but full blown. Frodo would take weeks preparing for them with Sam helping with all the practical details, as Mr. Frodo's head seemed firmly grounded in the air.

"You don't have to do that," Frodo would say.

"I know," Sam would reply. "But I want to."

Mr. Frodo's friends would always have witty and entertaining conversations, which were quite worth serving dinner and tidying up after. (Mr. Frodo paid Sam for it though. Frodo always paid for his services, even when Sam enjoyed doing them.)

Mr. Frodo and Mr. Merry both headed the group, though Mr. Merry was the more natural leader. Mr. Merry was a year younger than Sam and very witty and stylish in an outlandish sort of way. He preferred dark shades of red and blue to the more traditional green and yellows found in Shire cloth and black trousers to the more common brown britches. His belt buckles were always brightly polished, and sometimes he even wore jewelry. At first Mr. Merry had made Sam nervous. His appearance just seemed so outrageous, but Mr. Merry had a down-to-earth charm about him, and he was never rude or bossy, so he swiftly won Sam over, much to Mr. Frodo's delight. (Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo were best friends.)

Mr. Pippin, on the other hand, was not one of Sam's favorites. Pippin was very bossy. When he didn't get his way, he would sulk or order Sam to do something, like bring him more wine or cakes. Most people chose to overlook Pippin's faults because he was "just so cute and sweet, and he would grow up eventually". Sam guessed that this had been happening all of Mr. Pippin's life. After all Pippin was the Thain's son, he was probably spoiled rotten in Tookland. If Mr. Pippin got too bossy though, Mr. Frodo would threaten to whack him. At those moments Frodo actually showed that he cared deeply for Sam, and because of that, Sam forgave Pippin completely.

Sam had a more neutral opinion of Mr. Boffin and Mr. Bolger. They were Mr. Frodo's friends, which must mean they held some interesting quality. It was just hard for Sam to pin point it. It didn't help matters that Sam had a difficult time following any of the five's conversations. They were always talking about things they had found in books, mainly Mr. Frodo's books. Sam had borrowed books from Frodo many a time, but he rarely found time to read them, so he was always far behind. Still, it was nice to hear them talk intelligently, even if he couldn't fully understand them.

One April afternoon though (in Frodo's forty-fifth and Sam's thirty-third year), the topic had slipped from the linguistics of High Elvish to another topic: marriage. (Softer on the mind, harder on the heart, as the Gaffer would say.) Sam had been standing by the door of the sitting room, waiting for Mr. Frodo to say "dinner." He had been falling asleep standing, not able to follow the talk at all, when he was startled into full wakefulness by Mr. Merry.

"You should really get married," Merry was telling Frodo. "Find a nice, practical lass who can keep your books in order, so you don't have to go looking everywhere to find one."

Frodo laughed. "That wouldn't be fair for her."

"Unless she likes organizing," Merry said. "Some people do, you know. Me, for example."

"I'll marry you then," Frodo said. He slung an arm playfully about Merry's shoulder. Sam knew he would blush if Mr. Frodo did anything like that to him, but Mr. Merry just shook him off.

"You could," Merry said. "But I've already pledged my heart to Estella."

"You're courting my sister?" said Fredegar Bolger. "Since when?"

"No, not courting, just yet," Merry said. "I'm still laying the groundwork right now. But you, Frodo, you're older than me. You ought to at least be looking for somebody. By all rights you should be married by now."

Frodo slouched down on his sofa and pretended to be deep in thought. "You know," he said with a dramatic sigh, "I can't think of anyone."

"I've got three older sisters," Pippin said. "Not one, not two, but three. You've got to take at least one off my hands."

"Three?" Frodo said. "Well, then, I'm sure to confuse two of them and offend them all."

"What have you got against marriage?" Folco asked.

"Nothing," said Frodo quickly. "I'm sure it's a worthy establishment. I'm just not very interested."

"You'll wind up just like Bilbo if you're not careful," said Fredegar.

"I hope so," Frodo said. His resistance was waning though. "Dinner!" he called, like a cry for help.

Sam sprang for the kitchen. He had a platter of sandwiches in the dining room in two minutes and the soup there five minutes after that. The hobbits stopped chatting to eat and afterwards, when they did start talking again, the topic had changed.

After Frodo's friends had gone, Frodo took Sam out into the night to the look at the stars. They lay down on the long grass, and though the air around them and the ground beneath them were still cool, Sam felt warmth surging through him. His hands were close to Frodo's on the grass, their fingers almost touching. If he dared, Sam could take Frodo's hand, but he didn't dare. Frodo was reciting the names of the constellations. Name after name, until Sam's head ached, trying to keep them in order.

"What's that big one?" Sam asked, pointing at a group of stars that he thought looked like a man shaking a stick.

Mr. Frodo started, as Sam had broken his train of thought, but smiled. "That's Menelmacar. It represents Túrin, a mortal warrior from the first age."

"Tell me about him," said Sam. He laid his head back on the ground and closed his eyes.

"It's a sad, sad story," said Frodo.

"I like sad stories," Sam said. Grass was pricking his neck. He turned onto his side, trying to get comfortable. He was now facing Mr. Frodo and could see the outline of his features in the moonlight: the bright and deep-set eyes, the turned-up nose, and the cleft chin.

"Túrin brought about the death of all the people he loved," said Frodo. "He was cursed you see. His actions brought death to his mother and sister and brought ruin to the hidden kingdom of Nargothrond."

Sam shivered. "Nargothrond was an Elven city, right?"

"Yes, Sam." Frodo swallowed. "And he killed Beleg."

"Who's Beleg?"

"He was an Elf and Túrin's greatest friend," said Frodo. "Beleg tried rescuing Túrin from a band of Orcs, but it was dark. Túrin thought Beleg was an Orc and stabbed him through the throat."

Frodo paused and swallowed again. Then as if reciting from memory, he added in a half whisper. "_Thus ended Beleg Strongbow, truest of friends, greatest in skill of all that harboured in the woods of Beleriand in the Elder Days, at the hand of him whom he most loved_."

There was a pause. The wind grazed the trees. An owl hooted somewhere in the distance.

"Well, that is very sad, Mr. Frodo," said Sam.

"Yes," Frodo said. "I told you it was, but I don't understand. Why would Beleg die for Túrin? Túrin was mortal, and Beleg immortal."

"He loved him," Sam said. Frodo turned his head to study him. "He was his friend," Sam added quickly.

"But Beleg had other friends," said Frodo. "Ones who would not die."

"He loved Túrin more," said Sam.

Frodo pulled up a fistful a grass and threw it to the wind. "I wish," he said, "that I knew what it was like to love that much."

"I know," said Sam.

_Finis_


End file.
